


walk into the lions den (i'll follow you in)

by januarys



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-08 02:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/januarys/pseuds/januarys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where there is history, there is conflict. Michael remembers the past twenty years, and then some.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 'Complicated' Doesn't Cut It

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a little series of ficlets based off canon and headcanon, because they're the best kind of things to write about. Just adding to it when my mind sends me a collection of thoughts. Hope you all enjoy!

“Alright man,” Franklin says from his perch on the sun chair, his beer in one hand while his phone dangles from the other. “You ever going to tell me what the fuck is going on between you and Trevor?”

Michael looks away from Vinewood as it sparkles into the night, with those lights that reach here and there and every-fucking-where. “The fuck you talkin’ about, Frank?”

“Aye, don’t act all dumb with me homie. You know exactly what I’m sayin’.”

The older man plays dumb anyway and swirls the whiskey in his glass. He’s not drunk enough for this conversation and he’ll probably never be drunk enough for it. Trevor and Michael-

“We’re a complicated pair, kid. It’s for the best that you know as little as possible.” Michael says with finality.

Franklin, obviously buzzed from the nights proceedings, raises his hands in defeat and flips Michael off in the process. He says something about Chop and Trevor having gone too quiet to be considered normal and scrambles off the deck chair to stop the potential act of bestiality happening in the dark. Michael laughs because he’s not sure how to respond to that at all before it turns quiet again.

Twenty five years plays through Michael’s thoughts like wildfire. He leans back in his chair and downs his drink in one fell swoop.

_The fuck is going on between you and Trevor?_

“I’m still trying to figure that out,” he says quietly to himself.

Los Santos sparkles.


	2. Cops are People, not Animals

The only thing that North Yankton was ever good for was simply hiding all the bullshit beneath four feet of frosty white snow. But the snow was pure, the snow was a clean slate and it made Michael feel less guilt over his actions. It’s not like he ever felt guilt over what he did anyway, because his opportunities faded away when being a failed QB was all he had, and holding a gun in his hand felt a million times better than a football ever did.

Even though the snow was pure, it was still really fucking cold.

“That shit is fucking bad for you, Mikey.” Trevor plucks the cigarette from Michael’s lips and flicks it into the sleet. “Wouldn’t want your lungs to collapse when we’re high-tailing it from the pigs, right?”

Michael is pissed because 1) he’s cold again, 2) that was his last cigarette and 3) he’s fucking cold. “Fuck you T, and besides, they’re people not animals.”

“Oh?” Trevor drawls as he fingers the barrel of his shotgun. “Really now? Cops are people?”

“Yeah, and at least they’re making a fucking honest living by doing the right fucking thing!” Michael doesn’t understand why he’s getting so goddamn defensive of the very cunts they’re hiding from. It probably stems from his oversized ego and the need to be right all the damn time.

Trevor scoffs and gives Michael an incredulous look. “That’s pretty cute, Mikey. Really cute! So stick by your guns, brother, but you’ll see that even people turn into animals when they’re left to roll in the mud for too long.”

Michael opens his mouth to respond but then the sirens are everywhere and Trevor is fucking bouncing with sheer excitement as he scrambles from their hide out. His eyes are wide with joy and he looks like a kid in a fucking candy store.

“Hope those withered lungs are up to scratch, amigo!” Trevor screams as he takes off down the sleet covered road, and Michael follows with “I’m not your fucking amigo, prick!” through the cold, North Yankton air.

The chase is messy and the pigs are pretty close at one point but that’s the whole point of it though, right? The road to freedom, if they’ll ever reach it, is covered in sleet and ice and grime and snow, and blood drips from Trevors brow and a bullet grazes the side of Michael’s hand, but they laugh like a pair of fucking maniacs as they run into the distance as the sirens blare behind him.

Michael’s legs give out before his lungs ever do.


	3. Cliches are Cliches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off a headcanon that Michael doesn't actually kill someone until after he meets Trevor so... creative license!

Michael is good at what he does, no question about it.

While he may not have the same skill set as a majority of his accomplices, he knows how to put together a brilliant goddamn heist (with a healthy pay packet waiting for them at the end). He knows a thing or two about cliches and Michael has come to the conclusion that cliches are cliches because they work. There’s something wonderfully satisfying once a job is on the home run, the end within reach, and freedom at their fingertips.

“Cliches are fucking _boring_ ,” Trevor throws Michael a burger and Michael desperately tries not to consider the tightness of his new jeans. “They’re routine and boring and _difficult_ Michael, because they’re expected! Society _expects_ a fucking cliche from stupid cockwads like us.”

Michael takes a bite and relishes the processed flavour, damn his tight jeans. “But because society expects it, they’re pretty damn surprised when it happens anyway. So, it’s not like they were _expecting_ the expected to happen in the first place.”

Trevor holds a hand up to silence Michael because “Stop mind fucking me! Enough! ENOUGH!” and it’s enough to send Michael into a fit of laughter (it burns off a calorie or two, supposedly).

Yet Michael’s learnt not to rely on cliches as a coping mechanism. Those gritty, exploitation movies which Trevor fucking _loathes_ aren’t the most reliable example of learning how to deal. Just because the movie plays a montage, doesn’t mean that life will do the same.

Michael learns this when he kills for the first time and it’s gritty and horrible. For so long he had held off the inevitable, managed to keep a moral code about himself. Trevor doesn’t give a fuck because of his abandonment issues and well, _Trevor_ , but Michael-

It should be something he shouldn’t forget but Michael tries to forget anyway and the only thing he remembers from that night is dry-heaving into a dirty toilet in a dingy motel, blood caked beneath his fingernails and that goddamn feeling of dread that he fucking murdered someone. He _murdered_ someone in cold-fucking-blood and the bile that rises in his throat is hot and sour and disgusting and it’s nowhere near punishment enough for his deed.

He remembers Trevor grabbing him by the collar of his jacket and thrusting him into the shower, beating him around a little bit and trying to bring him back to reality.

“Gonna happen sooner or later sugar,” Trevor said as he turned the faucet on and it was freezing. “You won’t even think about it next time!”

“ _N-next time_?!” Michael spluttered through the vomit and the bloodied, ice-cold water. “Please, just- no fucking _next time_.”

Trevor was uncharacteristically silent for a moment before he climbed into the shower and positioned himself next to Michael, and Michael wanted to say something, tell him to ‘ _fuck off_ ’ and ‘ _don’t leave_ ’ at the same time. He stayed silent and Trevor stayed next to him for as long as they could bare beneath the freezing stream of water.

“Mikey... you’re a fucking cliche,” Trevor said as his lips turned blue and his joints turned brittle but he wrapped a trembling hand around Michael’s wrist and squeezed tight.

The water was running clear by the time they got up.


	4. Go with It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paying homage to Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (the one with Val Kilmer & Robert Downey Jr) with this drabble here. You all know which scene! I should also point out that any errors are my own and I will go over them once time permits!

There is something in Trevor’s genetic nature that deems it a necessity to make Michael’s life really fucking difficult. Whether it’s to be among the most wanted men in the United States, or to shoot first and ask questions later, or Trevor just being Trevor (and Trevor just doesn’t give a fuck because life is short and so is the night so live a little, Mikey!), Michael’s life is just severely difficult because of Trevor fucking Phillips.

Well, not difficult per se. Rather the awkward moments in between all the laughter and the bullets and the heists and the snow falling outside their safe house in North Yankton. Yeah, yeah _those_ moments.

Take that one time that Lester tracked down some paydirt just outside of Yankton at a brand new credit depository. Granted that it wasn’t much for a small group of master thieves who staked their claim in the big cities but it was enough to keep their little group satisfied for a few years to come.

So Trevor and Michael park across the road from the building, following Lester’s careful instructions like the good criminals they are, and pass time through a haze of salted peanuts and really bad jokes.

“What caused the airline to go bankrupt?” Michael says with a smirk on his face, and Trevor looks at him like he wants to rip his fucking head off.

“Don’t do it Townley,” he growls. “Don’t you even dare-”

“ _Runaway inflation_ ,” and Michael chortles as Trevor dumps the bag of peanuts over his head because ‘ _Oh, you’re such a funny motherfucker_!’ and ‘ _I’m hilarious, you fuck_ ’. If there was an intelligent fly on the wall in that moment, they would think that the grown-ass men who are throwing peanuts at each other in the cramped car are, in fact, children.

But when children get into trouble then they try to find an easy solution to get out of trouble. Sometimes, Lester isn’t always on point with his information and _sometimes_ Trevor likes to improvise when shit goes down the way it isn’t supposed to.

It happens like this: if there’s a shifty-as-fuck car parked across the street from a building that’s storing a fuckton of cash then naturally some type of law enforcement is going to come and check it out, and that’s just what happens when Michael and Trevor decide to cause a ruckus because they’re immature little shits at heart.

While Michael tries to figure out a way to explain this, to act cool and be calm about it all, Trevor naturally takes the situation into his own hands by sliding out of his seat and onto Michael’s lap, and before Michael can protest the lump of skin and bones that currently straddles his hips, Trevor’s mouth is on his and those protests are lost in a kiss.

Or... something like it.

“Just fucking _go with it_ , Mikey,” Trevor mumbles against Michael lips, and Trevor tastes like peanuts and beer and something distinctly Trevor, but Michael holds onto the collar of Trevor’s jacket to better angle their mouths together.

Seriously, despite all the shit that passes Trevor’s mouth, the fucker knows how to use it. From nipping and sucking at Michael’s bottom lip, the barest brush of tongue as Trevor pushes himself against Michael’s body, and there’s stubble burn here and a little grinding there and _fuck_ , it’s a little better than all the strippers that Michael’s had in his life so far.

Somewhere deep down, Michael has always wanted this. Fucking A, he’s always wanted this, but life isn’t a movie and movies usually cut to the morning after and everything that follows. Instead, there’s a tap at the window, a mumbled apology from two _very_ flustered men (well, one apology. Trevor is just pissed that he’s no longer getting any), and then they’re left in the compromising position of Trevor all up in Michael’s personal space despite the fact that they were making out like a pair of horny teenagers not thirty seconds before.

“Get the fuck off of me, dick,” Michael shoves Trevor back onto his seat.

“Fuck you too, dickweed. At least I knew how to handle the situation,” Trevor growls as he crunches some peanuts beneath his boot. “You didn’t seem to uh, _mind_ it anyway.”

Michael scoffs. “Didn’t really have a choice, T. You caught me off guard.”

“I just like making your life difficult, Townley,” Trevor smirks. “I figured you were smart enough to figure that part out.”

Michael shifts the car into gear and is already calling Lester as he pulls away from the curb, Trevor’s mouth still a fucking phantom against his own. “Got that right pal.”

If Michael ends up over analysing the situation later on, he’s completely placing the blame on Lester.


	5. Impossible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [radiopappa](http://radiopappa.tumblr.com/) drew some lovely art for the fic! Love it over [here](http://radiopappa.tumblr.com/post/74049342085/mikey-youre-a-fucking-cliche-walk-into-the) <33

****They travel down a midnight highway when the rain is pouring and the windscreen is fogged up from the humidity inside of the car and Trevor blasts that terrible excuse for rock music until the speakers threaten to burst. Michael rolls down a window because even though he’s prone to the cold, it’s too fucking stuffy beneath the layers of clothing and the stale air between them.

“Gonna remember that cupcake,” Trevor yells over the music, never taking his eyes from the dark road. “Next time you bitch about your balls shrivelling to fucking raisins, I’m just gonna _remember_ that _you_ rolled the window down first.”

Michael slouches in the passenger seat, “Yeah, yeah, fuck you!”, and allows the sharp, icy wind pierce into his cheeks.

Trevor is a fucking psychopath who deserves little sympathy for the consequences of his actions. Michael knows the man, knows how he functions, knows every twitch of the brow and every movement of his body because Michael _knows_ Trevor Phillips. When you work together with someone for long enough, being around them and in close proximity for all hours of the day and night, you just _know_.

But there are those times, Michael decides, when it’s easy to forget that Trevor is the kind of man who will put a bullet into another mans skull because they looked at Michael the wrong way. Not Trevor: _Michael_. He’s probably a little too possessive of Michael than for what’s considered normal but Michael tries to see it as endearing rather than creepy as shit.

He fails most of the time.

A few minutes pass with silence above the noise and Michael watches the road glisten from the fog lights on the car. It’s cathartic, strangely calming to his senses, and he looks over at Trevor to see the man appear almost, well _fuck_ , peaceful.

Peace and Trevor are two things that should not and will never mix but it happens right in front of Michael’s eyes. The light of the dashboard highlights Trevors features, give him an eerie complexion, and god he looks so fucking impossible.

Why, Michael thinks, can’t Trevor keep a fucking lid on it sometimes?

Then Trevors takes his eyes off of the road to look at Michael, and Michael wants to fucking scream at the stupid bastard because they’re going to die _they’re going to die_ , but there’s something in Trevor’s eyes that makes Michael bite his tongue and take it all in. Impossible, impossible.

A second passes, maybe two or three, and the bad things normally take less than that, before Trevor turns back to the road with the pedal to the medal and the volume on the radio pushed towards breaking point. Michael decides that if he were to die, right here and now with Trevor by his side, then it would be okay. Really.

Trevor keeps driving into the night, and the rain keeps pouring. Michael rolls his window up.

 


	6. Nothing but Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dedicating this chapter to the beautiful [thedosians](http://thedosians.tumblr.com/) who is an angel cake, sweetie pie, and generally fantastic author! <3

Michael remembers the night Amanda announced that she was pregnant.

See, he was so fucking tired and pissed and annoyed because each plan for the upcoming heist seemed to be against their favour. Naturally Trevor wanted to go in head first, guns blazing and hostages under his wing, but Michael... he was getting too old for that shit.

Amanda though, it’s not like there were fireworks or a big-ass surprise party (and Michael fucking _hates_ surprises because it usually means that the cops are just outside the door) but it happened like this: Michael came home late, tracking mud and snow all over the carpet (and _yes_ , he should have left them outside because Amanda was going to bitch and moan but he didn’t care that night).

His phone was buzzing with messages from both Trevor and Lester (more Trevor than Lester) and he was this close to throwing it against the wall-- then Amanda had been waiting by the kitchen door, her eyes a little brighter, a smile threatening to burst on her lips, and... her fingers were brushing her stomach softly and Michael knew, he just fucking _knew_.

“No,” Michael dropped his coat onto the muddy floor.

Amanda nodded excitedly. “Yes.”

“No, no way.”

“Yes, Michael-”

“You’re fucking with me, there’s no-”

“ _Yes_ ,” Amanda stressed with shining eyes and her palms smooth over her stomach. “Yes, Michael, I’m pregnant!”

All Michael could do was punch the air, “Fuckin’ A, baby!” and gather her in his arms just to spin her around because finally, _finally_ , there was something else to fight for and something else to love with whatever was left inside of his chest.

When Tracey was born: red-faced, tiny hands and the most beautiful thing Michael ever held in his arms, nothing else mattered anymore. Nothing but her.

 

*

Tracey is barely two when Amanda is out of the house for the day with a stern warning to _not invite Trevor because I don’t want that psychopath near my daughter_ , and it takes ten minutes after Michael messages Trevor for the man to arrive.

“Why _hello_ cupcake,” Trevor purrs as he walks in. “Oh, and the kid too.”

Michael bounces Tracey on his knee, her small hands wrapped around his fingers and her little tongue poking from the side of her mouth in concentration (because Daddy is the brightest star in her eyes), and throws Trevor a glare. “The _kid_ has a _name_ and it’s _Tracey_ , asshole.”

Trevor looks scandalised, “Michael!” and moves to block Tracey’s ears but then Michael, through all his years with Trevor by his side and knowing that sudden movements and Trevor are bad, practically snatches Tracey out of the way and holds her close. He doesn’t miss the flash of hurt that crosses Trevor’s face and Michael feels like the biggest dick in the world.

But then Tracey makes a small huff of surprise and bursts into tears, and Michael is caught between comforting his daughter and apologising to his best friend.

“Shit, Trevor-” _Damn_ , does his baby girl have a set of lungs on her.

“Hand the lump over, Michael,” Trevor growls with waiting arms and the need to _protect_ flares up again but it’s _Trevor_.

“T, I’m sorry-”

“I’m waiting, honey. Give her to me. _Now_.”

There’s a bit of awkward maneuvering above Tracey’s wailing and tears and Trevor holds her like he doesn’t know what to do with her. Michael manages to settle Trevor down onto the run-down couch beside him and he feels too old but nowhere near wise enough for his age at the same time.

Trevor meets Tracey’s eyes and he stares her down. “I like you, blondie. You're a smart little thing. Someone does the wrong thing, you fight back. That's good! I like that in a woman. But, see... I got a _little_  bit of a headache now, babe. You wouldn’t like me when I have a headache and, well, I kinda want you to _like me_ , capiche?”

Then Michael is surprised because Tracey falls quiet and then her face bursts into the biggest, _cheesiest_ grin he’s ever seen. It’s really fucking adorable. She leans forward to bury her head into Trevor’s scarf, her tiny blonde pigtails poking out from his many layers of clothing, and snuggles into his chest with a small huff of delight.

“Holy crap,” Michael says and Trevor looks pleased with himself.

“Great judge of character, little one,” He curls a hand behind Tracey’s head, who coos softly. “You’re long for this world if you keep on doing what you’re doing.”

It’s silent between the three of them for awhile, Tracey’s fallen asleep against Trevor’s chest and steady arms, and Michael wants to kiss him and kill him and force him to stay forever (which Trevor wouldn’t mind but Amanda would have a few things to say about that).

“I’ll tell you right now Mikey,” Trevor mumbles against the top of Tracey’s head. "That I'm never going to let anything hurt her. Never, _ever_ , or anything. Got it, brother?"

“Sorry, T,” Michael whispers softly as to not wake Tracey. “It's just-"

"I mean it Michael," Trevor meets Michael's eyes and he's deadly serious. "I swear it on my goddamn life."

Michael reaches over and traces the top of Tracey's head, brushing Trevor's fingers as he tucks a strand of blonde hair behind a tiny ear in the process.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I know you do."

Amanda doesn't speak to Michael for a week after that, but a week of her silence is worth a lifetime of Trevor's promises.


End file.
